


What Happens In Vegas (Or: Cas Cheats at Gambling and Dean Has a Cowboy Fetish and Sam Is the Best Brother Ever)

by metarachel, omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, Post-Episode: s14e12 Prophet and Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/pseuds/metarachel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: “Vegas?”Sam hisses, when the pilot announces their destination. Cas’s eyes crinkle in delight, and he flashes three honest-to-god golden tickets with BILLIONAIRE’S PLAZA stamped across the front.Dean, when he wakes, is like a kid at Christmas. “Oh,” he says, “my God.” He presses his face to the taxi window and tries to perform osmosis into the nearest strip club.





	What Happens In Vegas (Or: Cas Cheats at Gambling and Dean Has a Cowboy Fetish and Sam Is the Best Brother Ever)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrusjava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusjava/gifts).



> GUESS WHO WROTE A GENFIC
> 
> This is for the wonderful [CitrusJava!](citrusjava.livejournal.com) Thank you for commissioning a hitherto exclusively-darkfic writer for your brother-bonding needs. This fic was so sweet it actually took TWO darkfic writers to complete it. We had SUCH a blast, and we hope you love it as much as we do <3
> 
> Thanks also to [Gertie](https://gertiecraign.tumblr.com/) for plot suggestions and [Troubleseeker](https://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) for braving the madness.
> 
> Rachel shouldering in here to point out that Bubbles wrote me into the fic and I take no responsibility for her nonsense ;p Also we definitely half-assed our research so if you live in Vegas, please forgive us.

Not even Metallica blaring out of the Impala’s speakers can abate Dean’s outrage. He’s picking one-handed through his salad with an expression that should be reserved for morgue duty and thinking about your grandparents having sex. At least his other hand’s on the wheel and his eyes are mostly (more or less) on the road. “Why,” he asks, pulling an olive out with a look of sheer repulsion, “did I let you buy the food?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sam reminds him. He tosses over a bottle of water that Dean catches one-handed and stares at as though he can imbue it with calories and whiskey by eyesight alone. The car revs as though it’s as affronted as Dean is.

“Aren’t you supposed to be treating me nice?”

“Oh, please.”

“What if I get so sick of salad that I lock myself in the Ma’lak box out of spite?”

Sam swats him with the book he’s reading. “I’ll shove lettuce through the keyhole,” he warns. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Dean grumbles and deigns to sniff a single slice of tomato, which he promptly throws into Sam’s salad.

“You like tomato,” Sam says, throwing it back.

“Yeah, when it’s sandwiched between bread and meat and cheese.” He dubiously eats a cube of beetroot. The car swerves a bit and Dean corrects without looking.

“Pull over. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

Dean gives him a look that could wither grass.

“Well we have to pull over soon anyway. We’re nearly out of gas.” A road sign flashes by, advertising beer, burgers, and pool. Dean shoots him a grin, winds down the window, and dumps the rest of his salad out without slowing down.

“Hey!”

“I’m feeding the wildlife,” he says. Then he leans out the window and yells, “YOU’RE WELCOME!”

The wildlife, for its part, doesn’t comment.

“I’ll pay you back after a few rounds with the locals,” Dean tells him, and Sam can’t help but laugh.

“What, you wanna hustle pool? _Now?”_

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for gas with smiles and good intentions?”

“Eventually we’re going to go into a bar and they’re going to recognise you and you’re going to get your ass handed to you.”

Dean grins like he could think of nothing better than getting into a fight with some locals. He doesn’t even bother signaling as the road forks off and the little town comes into view. There’s only one main road and the bar is lit up like Christmas, neon signs promising everything a middle-aged idiot could want.

Dean waggles an eyebrow. “One hour,” he promises.

Sam opens his book and settles in.

 

* * *

 

Cas meets them at the bunker with the Ma’lak box in the back of his truck. Sam tries to steer Dean away (honestly, do any of them really need a reminder?), but Dean swings himself onto the truck bed and runs hands over the metal like he’s a concerned mother hen and the box is 1000% less murdery than it actually is.

“Leave it,” Sam warns. “What are you even looking for?”

“Gotta keep it tip top,” Dean says cheerily. “We might not have much warning before you have to lock me in.”

Sam stops himself from bursting into tears by upending Dean’s undrunk water over his head. “Get in the fucking bunker,” he says.

Cas follows up by slapping a piece of paper onto Dean’s forehead and letting it stick to the water there. When Dean pulls it off, it has “DON’T YOU DARE!” written in all caps in their mom’s handwriting. It’s Dean’s turn to almost cry. Cas shepherds them all towards the kitchen.

Sam makes spaghetti something for dinner. Dean manages to limit his whining to exactly three broccoli complaints, but he serves himself seconds anyway and brings beers on his way back to the table. Cas doesn’t eat, but he boops Dean’s fork out of his hand between bites, which only gets funnier every time. Dean retaliates by bringing a dozen forks back to the table so Cas has to find new places to boop them to.

It’s so normal. _They’re_ so normal. Tossing out insults and laughter like there’s no such thing as a Ma’lek box. Sam uses his thumb to smear tomato sauce on Dean’s arm, and Dean flings a noodle at him.

“Stop it!” Sam yells.

“Nope. Not until you leave. It’s pasta your bedtime!”

Sam laughs so hard he thinks beer might drip out of his nose. Dean picks up another noodle and takes aim, but before he can launch it, pain flashes across his face and he winces. He turns suddenly to the side like he’s deflecting a blow, and presses the heel of his hand into his temple. The sound he makes seems utterly inhuman, and when he opens his eyes again, he doesn’t appear to realise that he’s made it.

“Dean,” Cas starts.

Dean waves him off. “Time for a shower,” he says. “Then I’m gonna hit the sack. See you in the morning.”

He leaves without further comment.

Sam looks at Cas in alarm, but then he notices Dean’s dirty plate.

“DID YOU LEAVE JUST SO YOU WOULDN’T HAVE TO DO THE DISHES?”

From down the hallway, he hears Dean sniggering, and the sound of a door locking shut.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes up the next morning with a face full of angel. Which is precisely one face too many’s full of angel.

“Hnngh,” he _hnnghs._

“Our plane leaves in 2 hours,” Cas informs him.

“Hnngh,” Sam _hnnghs_ a little louder, in case he wasn’t clear enough the first time.

One hour and forty five minutes later he’s sitting next to his brother and angel and doling out sleeping pills like a pharmacy.

“Where are we going?” Dean says for the hundredth time. He eyes the tray table with suspicion. He eyes the stewardess with suspicion. He eyes Sam’s neck pillow with suspicion.

“Dunno,” Sam tells him. The last passengers are boarding. He glances at his watch. These sleeping pills better kick in soon.

The stewardess makes final flight checks, and Cas leans over Sam’s chest. “Dean,” he says. Dean looks at him like he’s one neuron short of a panic attack. But Cas just smiles, presses two fingers to his forehead, and Dean falls backwards, immediately snoring.

“These cost eighty dollars,” Sam tells Cas, poking him in the chest with the now-redundant sleeping pills.

Cas ignores him and loftily opens the in-flight magazine to update his knowledge of mid-western owleries.

Dean sleeps through all their flight announcements and doesn’t even stir when they hit turbulence over Utah.

 _“Vegas?”_ Sam hisses, when the pilot announces their destination. Cas’s eyes crinkle in delight, and he flashes three honest-to-god golden tickets with BILLIONAIRE’S PLAZA stamped across the front.

“I might have made some erroneous allegations about our credit,” he says.

“Cas!”

“Dean’s always wanted to show me Las Vegas,” Cas points out. “We can research just as well from there as from the bunker.”

Sam looks over at Dean, who’s drooling onto his shoulder. “Yeah,” he relents. He shoulder checks Dean gently.

 

* * *

 

Dean, when he wakes, is like a kid at Christmas. “Oh,” he says, “my God.” He presses his face to the taxi window and tries to perform osmosis into the nearest strip club.

Billionaires Plaza, despite the name, has far fewer chandeliers than expected. The receptionist checks them in with precisely the opposite amount of judgement that Sam would have expected from someone wearing a golden name tag.

“Hi, Rachel,” Cas says, handing their booking confirmation over.

“Hello, Mr. Novak, it’s a pleasure to have you with us today.” Rachel checks them in, passes them their room keys, and directs them to the elevators while simultaneously managing to not look at them like they’re the dirty plaid-wearing hunters Sam knows they are.

Dean practically vibrates out of his skin when the elevator greets them with an actual elevator operator in full regalia, then again when they open the door to their suite and the lights come on automatically.

“Dude, there’s a _hot tub_ in our living room!” He runs into the kitchen. “FREE BOOZE,” he yells. He runs into the bathroom. “FREE SHAMPOO,” he yells. He runs into Cas.

“Free chips,” Cas tells him. He deposits a handful of tokens into Dean’s hand.

Dean closes his fingers around them. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he says. “And for the record, I approve of any and all uses of Las Vegas as a coping mechanism.” He lobs a chip at Sam’s forehead. “Last one to the tables is a rotten egg!”

Sam figures that of all the places to let a giddy Dean loose on the town, Vegas is probably the best equipped. He flings Dean’s phone at the back of his head as he departs--Dean reaches back and catches it without so much as turning to peek out of the corner of his eye--and goes about unpacking.

“Damn, Cas. How did you swing this?”

Cas shrugs innocently. “We’re big spenders.”

“Oh yeah?”

The smile that creeps across Cas’s face is 100% Winchester approved. “Well,” he says. “We’re about to be big _winners,_ anyway.” His eyes glow briefly blue, and Sam laughs.

“I sternly disapprove,” he says, then steals the expensive shampoo and conditioner and soap and lotion and hand sanitizer and toothpaste and individually wrapped moist towelettes and tosses them into their bags. “Casinos are high-functioning businesses that deserve our respect.”

“You’re right,” Cas says, then looks straight at the camera like Jim from the office. “Petty theft from mega-corporations will never have the same effect as systemically toppling the capitalist system from within.” He looks back at Sam. “Now shall we go collect your brother before he tries to bargain the Impala as collateral?”

 

* * *

 

It turns out that angel telekinesis is good for a lot more than just Being Extra: slamming doors and blowing light bulbs is one thing, but Sam thinks shifting the ball in the roulette wheel and the reels on high-roller slot machines is just as exciting. Twenty-four hours, five hundred grand (but like _holy shit_ , really, why hadn’t they ever brought Cas to Vegas before?), and four casinos later, they’re in the hot tub sipping things that would have John Winchester rolling in his grave.

“Why doesn’t mine have a cherry?” Dean asks sleepily, dipping fingers into the pink concoction and flicking them at Cas.

Without a word, Rachel leans over and drops a cherry in his glass.

“You’re the best receptionist this side of the equator,” Dean says boozily. He splashes the water like he’s patting a couch. “Are you gonna join us?”

Rachel does the receptionist version of a predatory smile. Which looks a lot like a cat eyeing a vase perched precariously on a counter. “The view’s just fine from here,” she says. And it is--they can see half the city glittering through their floor-to-ceiling windows. Rachel tops Sam’s glass up without him having to ask.

“We should go back to that first casino in a few hours,” Sam says. “They have a western-themed show on.” _And we should let them see us spending at least_ some _of the money before Cas tips Dean’s hand some more,_ he doesn’t add.

“I’m happy to arrange tickets for you,” Rachel says. “And a limo, if you’d rather not walk.”

“It’s literally next door,” Cas says.

“We’re taking the limo,” Dean tells him. “We’re taking the limo,” he says again to Rachel. “Pass those chocolate-covered-whatever-they-ares?”

“Blueberries, Dean.” Sam face-palms, then passes the bowl. “They’re _blueberries_.”

“The limo is booked,” Rachel tells them, without ever appearing to have made a call. “Is front row center to your liking--orchestra or mezzanine, your choice--or would you prefer somewhere more… private?”

“Front row center,” Sam says at the same time Dean says, “Why does everyone always think we’re _gay_ ? Just cos we’re three dudes sitting in a hot tub?” Dean gestures around said hot tub with his $300 glass of wine, sploshing some into the bubbling water. “I mean come on, we’re _at least_ five feet apart, look at the size of this thing!”

“It’s the plaid, sir,” Rachel says. Without moving a single muscle, she manages to gesture at Dean and Cas’s smooth chests. “And the manscaping.”

Sam barely hides his snicker as Dean pouts and waves his glass again, this time at his chest, sploshing a mouthful (a _$40 dollar_ mouthful) onto his left pec. “First of all, I do not _manscape_ . Second of all, I have like _twelve hairs_ there! Go on, count them!”

“Eleven,” Cas corrects. Dean pegs a blueberry at him.

“Your eleven chest hairs are very manly,” Rachel assures him.

“Nine of them are too light for most people to even notice,” Cas notes.

Dean looks like he’s about to argue back, but then his glass tips out of his hand and he claps both palms to his temples. Cas moves so fast that Sam can’t spot the moment between his presence on one side of the tub and the other.

“Sir?” Rachel asks.

“Ah, he, uh, he gets cluster headaches sometimes” Sam makes up wildly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Cas’s fingers are against Dean’s forehead, but there’s no telltale flare of white light.

After a moment, Dean shakes his head and looks up. “Huh?” he says. “Wha?”

Cas fishes his wineglass--mercifully unbroken--out of the tub and sets it on a nearby silver tray. “I think that’s enough for you,” he says. His fingers don’t leave Dean’s skin, though they do migrate to his shoulders.

“Yeah, we should get some, uh, rest before the show,” Sam adds. “Maybe some food.”

Dean perks up a bit at the mention of food. “I always wanted to order one of everything on the menu,” he mumbles.

“I can arrange that,” Rachel says, like the beautiful helpful queen that she is. She fires off a text, then says, “Your meal will arrive in half an hour. Please call me if you need anything else.”

Sam’s eyes are still locked on his semi-dazed brother, so he reaches blindly for their pile of casino chips and passes a handful to Rachel. It’s probably more like a thousand-dollar tip than a hundred, but she’s earned it three times over. “Thanks,” he says distractedly.

He’s more relieved than he cares to admit when Dean turns around in the hot tub to watch Rachel walk out the door.

“Dean?” he checks.

Dean scrubs at his face absently. “Mmh?”

“Is it… Michael?”

Dean blinks over at him. “Yeah,” he says, then frowns at his hands.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I don’t know, he’s… He’s being quieter than usual?”

Cas finally moves away, and when Sam catches his eye, Cas only shrugs. He looks back at Dean.

“What do you mean, quiet?”

“I don’t know, it’s like he’s bored or something”

Sam looks hopefully at Cas but Cas only shrugs. “Maybe Michael finds hot tubs unenjoyable?”

“Michael is Extra McExtrason,” Dean mumbles. “He would have lived in a hot tub if he could’ve. I think…” He pauses, and scratches his nose self-consciously. “I dunno, maybe he’s bitter he never thought of doing this himself when he had the chance.”

Sam finds it unlikely, but, well. Who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth? “Well _that,”_ he says, “is definitely something we can work with.” He grabs the chocolate-covered blueberries and tries not to let his hopes rise.

 

* * *

 

Rachel, Sam decides, is worth her weight in gold. She books them the private box after all, and has platters of finger food and carafes of water and wine ready for them on arrival. Dean immediately ensconces himself in the middle seat, and then lifts the armrests up so they can crowd in together. No one calls it cuddling, but Sam can’t help his arm from slipping behind Dean’s shoulders, and when Dean doesn’t protest, he squeezes gently. They might not hug except at the end of the world, but this seems to be an acceptable compromise.

It’s the kind of thing that makes Sam… _hope_.

But that hope slowly starts to fade. Despite a half dozen different girls offering to stay, Dean insists that he really definitely does prefer having just the three of them-- _just my brother and my best buddy living the high life together, yeah?_ Which, sure, is great, but hanging _without_ pretty women is _not_ how Dean copes.

It gets even worse when a waitress walks in with a plate of whiskey tasters, and Dean turns them down, opting for the water instead.

“Maybe we should’ve stayed home,” Sam says quietly.

A semi-nude waitress with cowboy boots immediately arrives and offers them all complimentary chocolates, which makes Sam look around suspiciously for voice recorders. Or supposedly-dead archangels.

“Maybe,” Dean agrees. This time they’re interrupted by a semi-nude waiter with cowboy boots, who Dean tries desperately to pretend is not more interesting to him than the free chocolate. Especially when the waiter offers everyone a complimentary cowboy hat. (Sam puts his on just to pre-emptively shut Dean up.) This establishment certainly seems to be clocking their preferences fast. Or maybe this is just what life in the premium seats is always like. Seeing as they’re half a mil richer now, Sam supposes they’ve got some time to figure that mystery out.

Then the house lights dim, and the stage lights blaze, and Sam is on his feet, gun in hand, before he even registers that he heard shots. Beside him, Dean and Cas are equally tense and alert. And all around them, the civilians in the audience are...

Cheering?

Cas is the first one to regain his bearings. He throws a handful of twenties at the stage as three girls waltz on, blowing imaginary smoke out of imaginary pistols and cocking their hips so hard they’re at risk of throwing out their backs.

Dean relaxes at the same time as Sam, and they both fall back into their seats. The music is too loud for real conversation, but Sam’s well experienced in hearing the things Dean can never say too loud.

“I love you guys,” Dean says quietly, and though neither of them turn to look at him, Sam can feel Cas’s arm move to slide in alongside Sam’s behind Dean’s back.

The cowgirls are joined by cowboys and what appears to be a real, live horse. And a real, live trick-rider-slash-male-stripper who appears to think ‘pistol’ and ‘dick’ are synonymous. Dean yells himself hoarse (heh) in the first ten minutes before his eyelids start making more and more frequent visits south. Eventually he’s napping peacefully against Sam’s shoulder, and, really, Sam thinks, that’s worth twice the price of admission.

“Should we wake him for the finale?” Cas whispers. “I’ve been led to understand that the horses and riders will form a pyramid, and the horses will _not_ be on the bottom.”

Sam’s a half-second from saying “Nah,” and then “Wait, _really_?” when Dean jerks so sharply the top of his head collides with Sam’s chin, and Sam almost severs his tongue.

Dean grabs a wine bottle and flips it in the same move, spinning to lob it across the room. Cas somehow manages to snag it out of thin air before it can connect with the wall. Sam grabs for Dean’s arms before he can cause any more damage, but Dean’s already dropped his fighting stance.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “What? I… Nightmare. Sorry.”

Sam grimaces. “Michael?”

Dean scrubs at his face and drops back into his seat. The waiter comes back in, but Cas shoos him out. “No, actually. He’s been weirdly quiet.” Sam would be disinclined to believe him, if not for the earnest openness on his face. “S’just…” Dean chuckles self-consciously, and Sam has to lean in to hear. “A bar full of Jefferson Starships, actually. Remember those sneaky assholes?” Dean makes an exaggerated shuddering noise and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“That’s… unexpected,” Sam hazards.

Dean shrugs. “Must be all this western stuff. Phoenix ash, Eve, all that jazz. You know.”

Below, the music crescendos and the audience starts chanting as the entire cast, both two-legged and four, gets on stage. Dean doesn’t seem to be paying much attention.

“Wanna go back to the room?” Sam asks.

Dean’s grin is a bit late when it arrives. “Alright, Samantha, we can save your precious eyeballs from all the sexy people. Wouldn’t want to offend that delicate head of yours.”

Sam chooses not to rub it in that Dean said _people_ instead of _women_ , even though it’s low-hanging fruit. No reason to scare his brother further into the closet than he already is. Cas might smite him.

Plus, no reason to scare _himself_ by thinking of who else is locked in a closet, a _breaking_ one, in his brother’s not-screwed-on-very-straight head...

Well, too late now.

They exit as quietly as they can, and Sam leaves an exorbitant tip in their wake. As he walks behind Dean he can’t help but stare at the back of his head, as though peering at it might reveal why Michael’s gone so quiet.

“Dude,” Dean says, turning to swat at him. “I can feel you staring at my ass.”

“I believe that was Elvis Presley,” Cas says helpfully. When Sam turns to look, the Elvis Presley in question doesn’t even pretend to look ashamed. He gives Dean a _come hither_ gesture that makes Dean lose his footing. Sam hoots with laughter as Cas shepherds Dean away.

“I’ll love you tender!” Elvis calls after them.

 

* * *

 

When Sam wakes up, Dean is still sleeping. Cas greets him in the kitchen with coffee and informs him that Dean has, in fact, stayed asleep the whole night.

Sam glances at the clock. “ _Eleven hours_ ?” he says, hardly believing _he_ slept that long, let alone Mr. Just Give Me My Four Hours. Especially with the way Michael’s been shouting in Dean’s head.

Cas nods. “Well, I did spend thirty-four minutes losing fifty thousand dollars at the roulette wheel at approximately 4am, so it’s possible he was restless then, but I didn’t sense anything.” At Sam’s raised eyebrow, he says, “I felt losing a bit would make our wins seem less conspicuous.”

“Smart. Daniel Ocean is probably gonna get in touch.” He realizes he hasn’t touched his coffee yet--doesn’t actually need it this morning--and takes an appreciative sniff and sip rather than his usual gulp. It’s so damn good he has to resist the urge to check his teeth for bits of gold leaf--if a hotel could gold-plate its beans, this place would be first in line.

“We’ll win it back later,” Cas assures him, as if that’s the thing Sam’s truly concerned about.

Sam tosses off a sincere “Don’t worry about it,” then settles with his coffee and his laptop into what he’s pretty sure is a genuine Victorian armchair, complete with matching footstool. “As long as we’ve got enough cash to keep spoiling Dean for a couple more days, I’m happy.”

Cas gestures toward the embossed-leather breakfast menu resting on the genuine Victorian end table to Sam’s left. “Should I order one of everything, then?”

“Make it two,” Sam says, already neck deep in Search the Web results for Vegas day trips. “I’m tired of fighting with him for the last slice of avocado toast.”

 

* * *

 

Dean shuffles out of the master suite half an hour later, smelling of lavender and wrapped head to toe in complimentary Egyptian cotton. Every single seam on the slippers, robe, and head towel is gilt with matching, real-gold-thread embroidery, and the Billionaire’s Club logo on each of them glints in the late-morning sun.

“Very tasteful,” Sam tells him.

Dean scratches at his belly and says through a yawn, “The shower’s _incredible_ , dude.” He flops down on the overstuffed couch, baring a little too much thigh through the gap in the robe. Sam averts his eyes back to his laptop. “Oh, hey. Do I smell coffee?”

Cas has wandered off to gamble again-- _I don’t eat, Sam, no point in me wasting time_ \--so Sam hops up out of his much-prettier-than-actually-comfortable chair and fixes Dean a fresh cup.

“Thanks.” Dean cradles the delicate gold-and-porcelain mug in both hands, takes a long sniff, and lets out the same appreciative hum Sam did. And just like Sam earlier, he doesn’t gulp it down.

“Sleep okay?” Sam ventures. Dean looks about as well-rested as Sam can ever remember seeing him, but…

“Think so.” Dean scratches at his belly again and takes a sip of coffee. “ _Oh my god_ ,” he moans, and takes another. Then his eyes fall on the clock on the single-serve coffee-slash-espresso-slash-latte maker, and this time his “ _Oh my god!_ ” is shouted. “I slept for _eleven hours_ ? Dude, why didn’t you wake me!” He takes an indignation break for another sip of coffee, then muses, “No wonder I had to pee so bad.” And then, because Sam didn’t already have _enough_ whiplash, “S’there breakfast?”

Which is precisely when they’re interrupted by a knock on the door and a call of, “Room service!”

“Dude!” Dean chirps gleefully, eyes rounded in awe. “Money can buy _anything_ , huh?” He hops up off the couch, then seems to think the better of it and sits back down. “Come in!” he shouts. He turns to wink at Sam: “Couch-service.”

The one waiter turns out to be _four_ waiters, because apparently two of everything on the breakfast menu takes up a lot of space. Dean waves them enthusiastically to the coffee table by the couch, where they dutifully park their carts and lift the engraved gold lids, one by one, off the engraved gold trays, announcing their contents as they go. Sam doesn’t know what at least half of it is, but he still fishes four $100 chips from his pocket and hands one to each of the waiters with a thank-you.

Before the last one can clear the door, Sam remembers they need something: he hops up and asks, “Can you arrange a car for us for the day? Maybe an hour from now? We want to hit up some tourist sites, so a knowledgeable driver would be great.”

The waiter nods. “Of course, sir. I’ll have the driver escort you from here.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

Sam watches the waiter close the door behind him, then turns back to their breakfast spread. Where, _of course_ , Mr. What Even Is Produce How Dare U Feed Me One is somehow, already, eating the last damn slice of avocado toast.

 

* * *

 

Dean manages to eat so much breakfast before the driver comes to fetch them that it’s frankly a miracle he doesn’t fall flat on his face the moment he tries to stand. Sam hums the Oompa Loompa tune under his breath while they get dressed.

He’s got the whole day planned out, and no matter how many times Dean’s pestered him, he’s stuck firm to his “It’s a surprise” guns. When he passes the list to the driver and leans in close to discuss the best possible order of events, Dean horns in with a spectacular lack of subtlety, and when Bitch Faces #12 through #47 don’t work, Sam has to physically shoulder-check him out of the way.

Their first stop is the Mobster Museum, which yields fourteen “Awesome!”s (Sam counts) between them pulling up to the parking lot and Dean and Sam posing for selfies in mobster hats and fake tommy guns. Afterward, the driver takes them on an hour-long tour of some of the famous mobster locations Dean had most wanted to see. Then it’s off to the Pioneer Saloon, Las Vegas’s oldest still-standing wild west bar, where Dean grumps nonstop about the so-called hauntings they advertise but nonetheless tours the place with glee. He’s hitting on at least three bartenders at once and about to order his second shot of frontier whiskey when Sam stays his hand and says, “Trust me, dude, you’re gonna want to be sober for this next thing.”

Dean gives him a look that’s about a hair away from _Do You Know Who I Am_ , but it’s clear he trusts him, because he settles up his tab and heads out to the waiting limo.

Dean spends the next hour regaling Sam with every mobster fact known to man, plus some facts known to no one except Dean (seriously, why did they even need to go to the museum?), and then shuts up abruptly as the giant SPEEDVEGAS SUPERCAR EXPERIENCE sign comes into view.

He rounds on Sam, grabs his tee in both fists, and says, “Dude, _no way_ ,” with the kind of intensity typically reserved for Vampirates and Wereghouls.

Sam pries himself loose and spins Dean towards the racers as soon as the limo pulls up. “Way.”

Dean makes it two steps away and has to grab for Sam again, only managing to make contact with his face. “ _No. Way._ ”

Sam chuckles and bats him away. “Dude. Way.”

Dean’s eyes go _huge_ . “I’m gonna…” He has to pause, swipe the back of his hand across his mouth. Is he… drooling? “I’m gonna race a _Ferrari_! No, wait, a Lamborghini! A Porsche? Ooh, or maybe--”

“You can race em all,” Sam promises. “We’re not in any hurry.”

As far as Sam’s concerned, Dean can have his death traps to himself, thank you very much, but there’s no denying the glee in every molecule of his brother’s body as he laps with one car, then another, then another, until he finally manages to convince Sam to ride along with him. Sam buckles up and squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to scream, but he knows damn well there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now than hurtling toward annihilation at 140 miles per hour with his brother by his side.

Heck, when he put it like that, it kinda felt familiar.

“LET’S GET A FERRARI!” Dean screeches as they somehow don’t flip taking a corner at triple digits.

 _LET’S FUCKING NOT,_ Sam says with every ounce of his _Please Chuck Is It Over_ body, refusing to actually say it out loud for fear of losing his breakfast.

When Dean’s grumbling stomach finally outcompetes his adrenaline addiction, they pile back into the limo for Sam’s next surprise: the Heart Attack Grill Las Vegas.

Dean peers at the massive entryway signage through the limo window and grouses, “Why don’t people _under_ 350 pounds get to eat free too?”

Sam claps him companionably on the shoulder. “We have _money_ now, remember? Come on.”

A waitress dressed as a hot nurse hands them both hospital gowns and ID bracelets as they walk in. Dean eyes his dubiously, but Sam knows damn well he _wants_ to put it on. Sam puts his on first so Dean can pretend he’s just following Sam’s lead. Then a different hot-nurse waitress seats them and hands them a menu that’s so outrageously American Sam’s pretty sure he’s going to get diabetes just from looking at it.

“Sam,” Dean says, face falling. “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Sam looks around but can’t see anything except diners and wait staff. “What? Oh my God, what?”

“Sam, I…”

Dean looks like he’s about to tear up.

_“WHAT?”_

“They don’t have _salads!”_ Dean wails, and sobs into his hands.

Sam throws the breadbasket at him.

Despite having his eyes covered a second ago, Dean snatches it out of mid-air. He taps the menu with his other hand. “On the plus side, you can add 40 slices of bacon to the Octuple Bypass Burger for less than seven and a half bucks.”

Sam has never been so conflicted about wanting and also not wanting to punch that smirk right off his brother’s face.

 

* * *

 

They have just enough time after dinner to make it to the Zombie Burlesque show, and after that Sam decides _not_ to suggest the topless swimming pool; he’s seen enough skin for one day, thank you. Besides, they should check on Cas; for all he knows, they’re either broke or multi-millionaires by now.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Dean says as they follow the crowd out of the show. When Sam doesn’t agree fast enough, Dean elbows him and says, “Right? I mean. Zombies. Boobs. Zombie boobs. What more could a hunter ask for?”

“You’re gross, Dean,” Sam says without heat, trying very hard not to ruin the effect by letting himself smile. “What do you say we head back to the hotel? We can hit up the Grand Canyon tomorrow if you want?”

Dean stops dead on the sidewalk, causing at least four people behind him to crash into each other. “The Grand… Seriously, dude? Hell yeah!”

With tomorrow sorted, they take the limo back to the hotel. It’s a short ride, but Dean’s so full of bacon and spent adrenaline and happy new memories that he’s nodding off on Sam’s shoulder before they hit the first traffic light. Sam keeps watch for nightmares, but maybe Dean’s not sleeping deep enough yet, or maybe Michael’s just… buried under five tons of beef and grease right now. Whatever it is, Sam’ll take it.

Frankly, he’s looking forward to passing out himself, except that when they get back to their room, it’s full of strangers. Sam’s reaching for his gun when Dean gives him an excited body-check and says “DUDE! You got us massages! Awesome!”

Which is when Sam realizes that “full of strangers” is actually just three spa employees, two empty portable massage tables, and a third table covered in a naked angel. Or at least, naked minus the mud and hot rocks.

“Um.” Sam scratches at the back of his neck. “Surprise?”

But Dean’s already halfway across the room, stripping utterly unselfconsciously as he goes. “I call the brunette!” he says. Sam shrugs and takes the last table for himself. God knows he could use a massage after three tense hours on the speedway with his brother.

“It was only three minutes,” Dean says, when Sam reminds him of that fact.

“You’re only three minutes,” Sam replies nonsensically, already nodding off with the hot rocks doing their thing. From Dean’s mumbled non-response he figures Dean’s headed the same way.

“Sam?”

“Mmh?”

“Thanks, man.”

Sam smiles. “Mmh.”

 

* * *

 

Dean could’ve sworn he was just getting a massage in an opulent Victorian hotel suite, so what’s he doing here back at Rocky’s Bar?

“Oh. Duh. You’re _dreaming_ , asshole.”

Well, might as well pour himself a drink. He wonders where Pamela is. He wonders why he knows he’s dreaming. He wonders why it’s so _quiet_ in here.

Oh, right. The rain has finally stopped.

Except that’s not all, is it. The banging and the screaming have stopped too.

It takes a lot more willpower than he’s willing to admit for him to turn around and face the beer cooler. And when he finally does, his whiskey glass slips right from his fingers.

The cooler door with its little lever handle is gone. The screwdriver holding the whole thing shut is gone.

And in its place is a full-on, solid steel _bank vault_ , and he knows without opening it that the door is eighteen inches thick and literally _cannot_ be opened from the inside.

Dean swallows. Reaches out. Touches hesitant fingers to the surface of the vault. The metal’s cool, solid. And completely, utterly, still.

Bolder now, he leans in and presses one ear to the door. If he holds his breath and closes his eyes, he can just barely make out the sound of something that _might_ be Michael raging from the other side.

“Comfy, asshole?” he whispers.

The raging might get louder, but it’s truly impossible to tell.

“Fine. Don’t answer me.” He flips a double bird at the vault door and adds, “You can rot in there.” Then he spins around, laughs, and waltzes right out Rocky’s front door.

 

* * *

 

After another profoundly restful night on his ridiculously plush king bed, Sam wakes with the sun, feeling energized and refreshed. He is greeted, as usual, with an array of _Billionaire’s Plaza_ colors. “Good morning, capitalism,” he says fondly. He heads out into the kitchen to use the thousand-dollar coffee machine, and nearly bumps right into Dean.

“Oh! You’re up.” _Smooth, Sam. Real smooth._

“Good morning to you too, princess.” Dean grins and starts the machine for him. “I ordered breakfast.”

“Hope you got extra avocado toast,” Sam grumbles, instead of asking what he really wants: _How’d you sleep? How long have you been up? Any nightmares?_

“Ugh,” Dean says, face squinching up. “Who would even want _vegetable_ toast, gross,” then hands him his coffee. Well. Coffee-like substance? Sam thinks it’s a latte, and he smells pumpkin spice mix. He thinks he’s not supposed to like it, but too bad. He takes a long sip, hums happily. Debates whether or not to point out the four slices of _vegetable toast_ Dean ate yesterday before Sam could even sit down. Debates whether or not to point out that avocados are, in fact, a fruit, not a vegetable.

Asks instead, “Where’s Cas?”

Dean hops up on the counter, legs swinging. “Downstairs in the casino. I think we turned him into a gambling addict.” Pause. “Can angels get addicted to stuff?”

 _Souls, maybe_ , Sam almost says, but the joke’s not funny, so he swallows it back and shrugs instead. “Ready for the Grand Canyon?”

Dean looks down at his slippers and robe, then back up at Sam as if to say _Do I_ look _ready?_ “Gotta shower after breakfast. Didn’t wanna wake you.”

Sam chooses not to mention that there are three full bathrooms in their suite and Dean could’ve picked one of the two not attached to their master suite. His brother doesn’t look much up for ribbing this morning, and while Sam can freely admit he’s often responded to that like a bull to a red flag, it feels wrong today.

Dean picks at the edge of his coffee cup, as if there’s a speck of stuck-on dirt there. (Sam would bet a literal million dollars that there isn’t.)

“So, uh… How are you feeling?”

Dean makes a face at his coffee and then makes the same face at Sam. “You know,” he says. “It’s the weirdest thing, but…”

Sam schools his expression into neutral dismay instead of the looming despair that threatens to swamp him. Oh, God. All the booze and adrenaline has weakened Dean and now Dean will want to rush back to the bunker to stuff himself in a box and it’s all his _fault_ and--

“I think we found Michael’s weakness.”

“Dean, you can’t,” Sam says, and then Dean’s words hit him over the face.

“Can’t what?”

“Um. Nothing. You were saying?” He leans forward like proximity will make things clearer instead of just louder.

Dean shrugs. “That douchebag can wear all the Newsies caps or whatever he wants, but it seems like a little me-time is all it takes to strip him down to nothing. Um.” Dean blushes faintly. “Figuratively, I mean.”

“I. I don’t… What?”

“I dreamed of Rocky’s last night. The place, you know, that he…?” Dean looks up, and Sam nods to confirm they’re on the same page. “And Michael,” Dean flourishes his mug and a grin, “is currently behind three feet of reinforced steel.”

“I… _what_?”

“The beer cooler? Is now a _bank vault_ . Can’t hear him _at all_ .” Sam has never seen a smile be both vindictive and smug. “I hope it’s fucking _freezing_ in there.”

Sam takes a moment to process. Sam _needs_ a moment to process because he cannot possibly be hearing what he is so clearly hearing. “So you’re… you’re telling me that all… that all you needed was a little _self-care_ to shore up that door?”

Dean’s smile fades a little, and he hides behind his coffee mug. “I mean sure, if you wanna get all touchy-feely about it, I guess we can call it that.”

“You know what?” Sam puts his mug down, then pries Dean’s away and sets that one down too. He holds his arms out.

“No,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t--”

“Yes, you do. You love touchy-feely. Come here.”

Dean makes the Dean-est amount of grumbling he possibly can, but his arms go around Sam’s waist regardless. Sam pulls him right off the counter and twirls him around before setting him on his feet, but he still doesn’t let him go.

“‘M not a kid,” Dean mutters.

Sam buries his face in the familiar spot on Dean’s neck where he’s been welcome since he was old enough to know what a hug was. “Sure,” he whispers back, and holds on tighter.

Dean squeezes back, and doesn’t let go.

 


End file.
